“Glad to help him,” Genda said. “He is good man.” He wouldn’t have bet more than fifty sen-say, a dime in U.S. money-on that but it was polite, and it gave him the excuse to keep talking with this striking woman. She was only a centimeter or two taller than he was, too.

She wore a distinctly unqueenly sundress of thin cotton. When she nodded, everything else moved in sympathy, and the dress showed it off. Genda hoped he didn’t notice too obviously. She said, “He’s a very good man. Hawaii needs him, especially now.”

Did she believe that, or was she being politic? Genda would have guessed she believed it. If she was so naive, she was liable to get badly hurt. “Good man, yes. Do many good things,” Genda said. Agreement was always safe. And, as long as King Stanley did exactly what Japan told him to do, the occupiers wouldn’t object if by some chance he turned out to be good, too.

Genda’s agreement won him a smile brighter than the Hawaiian sunshine from Queen Cynthia. He felt as if a bomb had gone off in front of him and he’d got flash-burned. “I’m so glad you think so,” she breathed. He’d never found the simple act of breathing so admirable before.

They chatted a little longer. Then, after another dazzling smile, she went back into the palace. Genda knew he needed to return to his duties. He waited till she’d gone all the way up the stairs, though.

THERE WAS A ZERO, swelling in Joe Crosetti’s windshield. Joe peered through the Grumman Wildcat’s gunsight. Can’t lead the son of a bitch too much, but if I don’t lead him enough I’ll miss, too. The thought was there and then it was gone. If you got close enough, you damn well wouldn’t miss. He waited till the hated enemy filled the bulletproof glass, then jammed his thumb down on the firing button atop the stick.